“I need to shower, feel free to show yourself out…babe,” I tell him as I turn on the water and then turn to face him. He looks crestfallen. I feel so bad all of a sudden.
“Oh, don’t be sad, babe, it’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s not your fault. I just don’t fuck losers in the morning is all.”
He nods, and leaves, tail tucked between his legs. Hopefully he rescues some girl from someone or something to get his ego up soon.
As for me, I have a plane to catch.
5
Vivian
Get in. Tell the Governor that he can’t openly cut down on jobs if he wants to keep his seat next time around. Twist his arm if I have to. Smile nicely and let him know I have a knife behind my back. And then get the hell out. I should be able to make time to catch the midnight shuttle from La Guardia back to Reagan if I stick to this plan.
That’s what I’m telling myself as my limo drives down along Park Avenue past 59th Street as it heads toward the Waldorf.
I hate coming to the city. I don’t mind it so much when I’m here, but every time I fly into either JFK or La Guardia, it seems
just a bit more fake. A bit more gentrified. Common people pushed out in favor of the wealthy. International billionaires who come in and buy $2 million dollar apartments just to park their money. But everyone forgets the people who had to get evicted so the old walk-up apartment buildings could get bulldozed for these new gleaming towers.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to go back to the days of high crime and a broke, dysfunctional New York City. And I’m not socialist. I’ve made enough money from the system, and my investment portfolio would leave many people green with envy. I’m definitely in the 1%.
But despite all that, sometimes it makes me sad, seeing Manhattan go from the place that brought out the best in America and slowly turn into an upscale shopping mall for the well-to-do. Not everywhere. And not always. And there’s still a long way to go.
But it just seems like more, every time.
I sigh. I need to get my head out of the clouds. Maybe this is what women worry about when they don’t have kids. Although, I’m only 29. And honestly, getting to be Senator was hard work. I’ve never had a chance to think about kids, and why am I even thinking about kids right now? I mean, look at me, hun. I’m wearing Vera Wang—dressed to kill in a black cocktail dress—heading to a fundraiser with the most powerful people in the country. And I’m wondering about kids? And a gentrifying city?
The car comes to a stop and the chauffeur opens my door and I tell myself I need to just follow the script and I’ll be out of here in an hour to be able to get back onto my plane and back home. Maybe I’ll even invite Mr. Lobbyist with the small dick back to my place. He gives great head.
I walk into the Waldorf and make my way to Peacock Alley where the fundraiser is being emceed. Security checks my credentials and all of a sudden I’m in a sea of bowties and cocktail dresses. People sipping martinis and laughing politely as they talk about the problems associated with ruling the world.
“Senator Hawthorne?” an usher says to me, coming up to me. He must have recognized me, although I don’t do many of these things. I nod. “If you’ll follow me, please,” he asks.
But wait, I’m sticking to my plan, remember. I can’t get caught up in anything else.
“Actually, can you take me to Governor Andrews?” I say to the usher. He looks at me for a moment and then nods and begins to make his way through the clumps of people surrounding the buffet table and bar.
We make our way for a minute until we reach a massive fireplace and that’s when I see the usher go up next to a tall man in a tuxedo with his back turned to me. He interrupts a conversation and the man turns to me and all of a sudden I catch my breath.
You remember when I told you earlier I didn’t want to have kids because I needed to focus on work?
Well, hun, if this man told me to have his babies, I’d hike up my dress and spread my legs right here on the floor.
I don’t even speak as I watch him walk over to me.
“Senator Hawthorne?” he asks and holds out his hand. “I’m Governor Andrews. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
I just had sex this morning. But then, why am I salivating over his Greek god body that fills out his Armani tailored suit?
I take a moment to look him up and down. He's got a handsome, to die for face. Blonde hair that's perfectly coiffed. His jaw is chiseled and his face is lean. Hungry. His eyes are a piercing blue and deep. They hold something dark. That face sits on top of an elegant neck and one of the most fantastic specimens of human male I have ever seen. Shoulders so broad that they could stop a truck. A chest that you can tell has pecs the size of wooden boards. Washboard abs. A tall, 6 foot 4 inch sculpture of perfection with a bulge in his trousers that hints at a package that I might want to explore.
“I’m surprised we have never met before,” I manage to speak through a dry mouth that’s panting with desire. “Considering you’ve been in office for two years and I’ve been a Senator for those two years as well.”
He nods to me. “I’ve been busy,” he simply says.
My eyes travel quickly over his body again and I look at his crotch. Whatever is down there is long. It’s thick. It’s pulsing. And I want it.
That’s right. I may want to fuck him. Or not. But it’s my decision. And right now, I am definitely leaning for fucking his brains out.